Bliss

By Sarah Remy

Bliss - Book One

A small pack of circus performers travel the border between two warring kingdoms, and eventually find themselves unwillingly conscripted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah Remy
• Release date: May 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301217847

Sarah Remy

I write fiction to keep real life from getting out of hand, I jump pretty horses over pretty fences because it’s a distraction from the real and the fantastic, I do Sun Salutations between 6 am and 7 am because I believe in discipline, and I live in an old house because I believe the best things last more than 100 years.

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Bliss

Sarah Remy

Copyright 2013 Sarah Remy

Smashwords Addition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material herein is prohibited.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people.

The persons, places, and things mentioned in this novel are figments of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is unintentional.

One

The first time I dropped a ball Ross simply plucked it from the grass and returned it to my hand.

The second time I dropped a ball, he knocked me across the brow.

The third time he awarded me a clap in the jaw. And after the fourth slipped ball, he took his belt to me.

His beatings proved a point and I never dropped a single colored ball again. The spheres became a part of me, as integral as the fingers on my hand and yet as unimportant as the freckles across my chest.

Eat with them, wash with them, dream with them. Ross reminded me every night before candle snuff. Treat them as King or whore. But never let them out of your sight.

He sewed for me a juggler’s pouch from a clutch of velvet I’d stolen in the King’s Market, and used horse hair as thread and dirty ribbons from his travel case to tie it about my waist. The pouch chafed at first, but soon my flesh became used to the scrape and eventually I began to feel naked without it.

The balls are your foundation and your luck, Bliss, Ross repeated in my ear, a mantra. They will always keep you fed.

Well. Perhaps not always. Ross was, deep down, a scoundrel who enjoyed the sound of his voice. But I never forgot his lessons.

When Shaara dropped his first ball, I retrieved it from the straw and placed it back on his palm. When he dropped his second, I cuffed him across the face. The third drop earned him a knock into horse muck. And the fourth, a whupping to rival even Ross’s strength.

Shaara will not drop a fifth.

*****

She’ll be drunk by sunset, the boy complained, frowning over his cider. She’ll break something. And we’ll have to sleep in the stables.

She won’t break anything. Maurice forked up a bite of thick stew and smiled. She’ll remember the last time.

She won’t. She never remembers.

She’ll remember. The stew tasted strongly of Southern salt. Maurice wondered how the tiny inn had managed to beg, borrow or steal even a handful of the precious stuff. Last he’d heard the King’s whores were going for less than a teaspoon of Southern spice.

Ten hands! Bliss crowed from across a herd of plank tables, directly on cue as always. Ten hands, and we’re out! That, my young gentleman, will loose you your purse Hand it over, beautiful.

The ‘young gentleman’ gave a shout of disbelief. Shaara’s thin shoulders slumped. Maurice swallowed another bite of stew and met the innkeeper’s concerned gaze.

Bliss, Maurice warned without turning around. The rooms are bought and paid for.

And isn’t that a wonderful thing. Hand over the purse, child, and we’ll go another round.

I’ve no coins left!

Your word is as good as the King’s. To Maurice’s biased ear, Bliss sounded like temple bells when she laughed. One more round before supper!

Supper’s nearly gone, Bliss, Shaara ventured. Better come before Maurice cleans out the bowl.

Shut your mouth, boy. Maurice picked up his own cracked mug and washed the salt from his tongue.

Shaara! Bliss blinked as though she had just now recalled her apprentice’s existence. Come and entertain us. And bring me the last of the stew.

Maurice watched as the boy rolled his shoulders and shoved back from the table. Even balancing a heavy bowl of stew and his mug of half finished cider Shaara had grace If only the lad could discover confidence as well.

Maurice glanced the innkeeper’s way again. The wiry man appeared not to notice the gathering trouble, but Maurice knew better. Likely the missus was already in the back room totting up possible losses. Four nights spent in Auberg Town and Bliss was already a legend.

Another cider, Bliss called from her perch before the fire. And another jug of ale for my pretty friend. Shaara, sit there. And for Trout’s sake, don’t step on the jumpers.

Maurice tilted his head and watched Shaara through wreathes of stale smoke. The boy stepped gingerly around the gaming ribbons and set the stew bowl in Bliss’s lap. She snatched it up and bent, using long fingers to dig mutton free, while dirty curls fell over her face. The avid look in her eye had Maurice coughing back a sigh. Apparently it would not be drink tonight after all, but a gamblers’ fight.

She’d picked the perfect stage. The Inn of the Star was packed from bar to window, patrons slowly crushing shoulder to shoulder as more weary souls abandoned the dusk in favor of heat and warmth and entertainment. The somber missus returned from the back room, installing herself before the keg, pulling ale with practiced ease and taking coin with a greed that mirrored Bliss’s own.

In a far corner, safely away from the roaring fire, a clutch of young wealth played a loud game of Catch and Drop. They wore the elaborate finery of the lucky, all feathers and satin, and they gleamed with easy coin. Closer to the warmth of wood and flame those with less to call their own played simple cards on wooden bench and table. Farm folk and King’s men, free of servitude until dawn.

Just beyond the planks Bliss sat high on a stool, deep on the hearth, nearly in the fire itself. A handful of admirers crouched at her feet, pretending interest in the game. Maurice noted the expressions on their young faces and marveled that they could find any beauty behind Bliss’s coat of grime.

Jumpers milled about in a box clamped between the knees of Bliss’s young gentleman. He was a gentleman in truth, Maurice realized with some surprise. Despite a dusting of grit his hose were plainly silk and he wore rings on his fingers. His soft hands fluttered, one tenting the box in an attempt to keep the crickets from escaping, the other cradling the jug of ale Bliss had cajoled from the innkeeper’s tight fist.

Shaara settled himself behind Bliss, back to the flames. Four tasseled spheres rolled from his threadworm sleeves. A flick of one wrist and he sent the balls leaping into the air. Beads on the tassels clicked and hummed, persistent even beneath the mutter of the crowded tavern.

The brown one, this time, Bliss said, licking mutton juice from one finger. He looks a veritable Granda. Let’s see what the old man can do.

The lordling wet his lips and teased an insect from the box. One of his companions straightened the ribbons on the hearth.

For or against?

Bliss snorted. And what did I just say? For. Fifty says he’ll make twenty hands.

There isn’t room, the lordling protested. Twenty hands will land him in the fire.

Jump him the other way, Bliss said. Above her head Shaara’s spheres spun and twittered. Take the bet?

A chorus of ayes and nays rose above the popping fire. Three more crickets were added to the line up. Maurice watched as coins changed hands. The lordling slipped an amethyst from his finger and set it at the foot of Bliss’s stool. The jewel, if sound, was surely worth more than the rest of the pot combined.

Maurice briefly shut his eyes. They would be sleeping not in the stables but in the young gentleman’s scullery, there indentured until winter.

Odds up? Bliss grinned, unperturbed.

Aye! A farmer’s lad laughed back, smoothing the ribbons straight. Give ‘em up!

The jumpers did not much like being set legs to fire. Maurice wondered if Bliss hoped the heat would make her champion jump all the farther. She slithered bonelessly from the stool and crouched with the others, fingers arched loosely around the paralyzed bug.

For King, for country, the lordling chanted, voice gone high. Jump!

The crickets, set suddenly free, buzzed and sprang. They were mute souls jerking in instinctive fear, flashes of shadow against the brighter fire light.

A shout went up. Bliss climbed the lordling’s shoulders, lithe and laughing. Throat dry, Maurice set down his mug and stood up to better see.

Granda! Granda! Bliss whooped. Legs of iron! Twenty hands at least! Where’s the chalk? Mark it! She squirmed, dropped free of the young gentleman and pushed forward. Mark –

Shaara loosed a ball.

Free of Shaara’s hands, the tasseled orb had little speed. But it had weight and direction. Maurice had to give the boy a nod for aim.

The ball clocked Bliss between the shoulders. The woman was strong but she was near drunk, and distracted. She stumbled, grunting, and whacked the surprised lordling with one sharp elbow. The young gentleman hissed and sidestepped, and the resulting crunch of bug bone beneath foot was audible even beneath calls for more drink.

The group before the fire froze and then Bliss’s scream of rage split the smoke.

Idiot! Wretch! Twice cursed son of a –

Maurice took three quick steps, forded an already overturned bench, and grabbed Bliss before she could send Shaara tumbling after the furniture.

Fate, Maurice warned, a low murmur into one grubby ear. Let it go.

Bliss twitched beneath his hand. He dropped it! Horrid’s tits, he dropped it! Did you see –

Maurice flexed fingers against her shoulder blade and she paused. Before the fire the lordling picked crushed grey insect from the bottom of his boot.

Mine, Bliss groaned. Did you see? Twenty hands if it was two.

Let it go, Maurice said again as he righted the overturned bench with elaborate care. Shaara and his errant ball had wisely disappeared.

Game forfeit, the lordling drawled. We cannot possibly take the measure now.

Because Granda’s smeared all over your boot, you clumsy arse! Bliss clenched her fists. Twas a clear win! You saw it! You all saw it.

The indentured, the nobility and the King’s men all held silent. The tavern waited with obvious expectation. The young gentleman smiled and reached across the planks for his purse. Bliss cursed and snapped dirty fingers about his pale wrist.

Hands off. That’s mine. Won fair and square last round.

Entire game’s forfeit, the lordling replied, limpid with satisfaction. S’written in the logs. ‘In event of unfortunate accident –‘

Maurice grabbed and missed. Bliss’s knuckles burst the young man’s pedigreed nose and her knee found his groin. The unfortunate creature went down, screaming, doubling halfway into the flames. Velvet and lace flared up. The crowd released bated breath in a roar.

Fox take us. Maurice lunged past cheering gamblers and tackled the young fool, snuffing angry flames with hands and chest. Out of the corner of his eye another bug twitched and smoked. Past the lordling’s panicked huffing he could hear the missus’ angry shouts and Bliss’s rising vulgarities. And hang us all.

You needn’t scowl so. Bliss picked bits of straw from her curls. It might have been worse.

I’m not sure how. You missed his purse.

I didn’t miss it. Bliss said, I left it. After a shock like that the little lordling might have forgotten his teeth but never his purse. It was a decoy.

For? Maurice frowned as he spread his cloak at the foot of the bale. The wool was charred and blackened in patches: punishment for a good deed done. The night air blew ice cold and one pasture over cows grumbled at the coming winter.

That, Bliss said, pointing one long finger.

Maurice turned. Shaara, settled with his head on his pack, held a gleam of purple up to the moon’s faint light. The boy’s eyes were very round.

You didn’t.

I did, Shaara answered, full of wonder. It’s bigger than my thumb.

A family signet. Maurice stretched lengthwise on his bedding and wrapped tight against the chill. We’ll never pawn it.

Not here. Bliss tilted her chin and appeared to study the moon. Next town over. Maybe two.

Not as easy as coins.

Worth more, Shaara opinioned, suddenly wiser than his clutch of years. Perhaps we can pry the stone free.

Perhaps. Bliss tucked her own cape around worn moccasins and sighed.

What is it? Maurice asked, knowing the answer already. She had no trouble burning the landed on a tavern hearth, but her heart had its own moods.

The crickets, Bliss said to the stars. I regret the jumpers. Did you see that poor Granda leap? Like a stag in the King’s woods. Tomorrow he’ll be scraped up with the offal, just so much grease on the bricks.

Shaara snorted. You’re no philosopher-priest, Bliss.

No. Bliss rolled over and closed her eyes. I’m much, so much more.

Two

My mother was called Rose, after the rare flower in the garden her papa spent most of his small life tending.

Granda Jorge is a scrawny, gnarled man with no proper sense of humor. Sold into service at the age of ten,he showed an uncanny ability to keep green things alive, first in her ladyship’s solarium, later in the herb plot, and finally as groundskeeper of the household’s treasured and extensive ornamental gardens.

He still talks incessantly of the land that wasn’t his. He can describe every seedling he tended in thirty years of servitude but he cannot remember the family he lost to the King.

Could be this is not an elderly failing. Could be it’s a calculated adaptation. I shouldn’t resent his choice. But I do.

Rose was a pretty child and an even prettier maid. She had absolutely no interest in either Granda’s botanical passion or her own place in a landed household. Rose had eyes only for the bright young conscripts who marched past in endless clots, season after season, away south on the dusty road that bypassed her ladyship’s stables and curved away over the horizon.

To my young mother these untried soldiers must have represented mystery and adventure. Certainly, as she grew older, they became objects of desire and then pleasure.

I do not know how many men she rolled behind the boxwood hedge in her ladyship’s lavender garden, but I do know I was the unsurprising end result.

She named me not after a flower, or shrub, or herb, but after